


Three's Company

by LadyAJ_13



Series: The Oxford Disaster Trio [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Blushing Men, Dating, Getting Together, House Hunting, Kissing, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Protective Jakes, Protective Morse, Season/Series 01, little bit of, sort of time but doesn't really pay attention to canon timelines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 11:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21252377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: She's actually, properly serious. And it wouldn't be alternate evenings but something more like three points of a triangle. He flicks his eyes to Morse and double takes when he finds him already looking back – like maybe he's worked it out too.“Like...” he can't finish it.Morse clears his throat, but when he speaks, it still sounds husky. “Together?”





	Three's Company

**Author's Note:**

> This came out of my own tumblr post: "I love Morse/Joan and I love Jarse, but I think what we’re all missing here is that Joan obviously liked both of them, so where is my OT3 fic?" Then everyone encouraged me, so this is everyone's fault.
> 
> It feels kind of weird to be launching a new ship. It's probably a bad idea to smash a bottle of champagne on my laptop, right?
> 
> Anyway - enjoy :)

In retrospect, Peter had to admit, the date hadn't gone well.

It had started fine, great even. He'd always liked Joan. She's beautiful, but up close she's funny too, and sparky, and not afraid to bite back with clever quips and put downs. Their conversation is easy, in the pub, and when they move on to the dance hall he thinks she's asking him to push his luck – much as she laughs and then bats his hands away. It's a tease. A game. A cat and mouse he has no real desire to win because she's not that kind of girl, and to be perfectly honest, he's not that kind of guy. Not on a first date.

It's the best date he's had in ages.

But then real life pushes in – and not only police and gangsters but her goddamn _father, _his _boss_, and before he knows it he's on the street and Morse has taken her home.

And that's that, really, isn't it? He'd never admit it – God knows Morse's ego's big enough as it is – but there's no real competition between him, dark and damaged, and Morse with his educated air, soft features and blue eyes. Girls go weak at the knees for a man like Morse. He probably writes them bloody love poetry that they cry over, then take him into their arms to stroke his hair.

And of course... Thursday likes Morse best. It's hard to admit, but there's certainly no contest between them there. Mrs Thursday's never packed a spare sandwich for him, the way she has for Morse. Delicate Morse, who's not bloody fragile at all, and rails against it because he doesn't appreciate what he has – this  _look_ that makes everyone want to take care of him. Joan was the only one to pick Peter, but much as she likes to act like the sort of girl who'll defy her father, deep down she's good. She has a family. You don't turn your back on that, and she wouldn't have to for Morse.

So he steps away. He doesn't call her, much as he wants to, much as he even picks up the receiver once or twice, digits burned into his brain from having to call Thursday out in the morning, cover story at the ready in case the old man answers. But he never punches them in. He lets her slip away, instead, into the arms of something easier.

Only Morse doesn't seem to understand. He tells him to take care of her. Like Joan is his, not one night stolen away by the very man who now offers his hands – take her – with a warning cut through like razor blades – but be good for her.

–

They're at the pub when it happens. They've been here too long really – one drink after work with Thursday morphed into several when the old man went home for dinner and Peter remembered the sorry state of his kitchen cupboards. He orders pie instead, one for each of them, and Strange slaps him on the back in thanks while Morse picks at his like it's poisoned. Peter rolls his eyes, scarfing his down before the gravy congeals.

“Joanie!” calls Strange, and his head snaps up. It is Joan; she's entered the pub with another young woman, blonde, and he'd forgotten her and Strange were sort of friends until she smiles warmly and heads over. He drags a hand across his mouth in case there's any stray gravy.

“Hi Jim. Peter, Morse,” she adds.

“Join us, won't you,” Strange is already on his feet, shifting chairs around, and he can only tell Joan is feeling awkward about it because he's watching her; sees the way her gaze flits around the pub. He stands, offering his chair.

“I'll get a round in – same again?” he asks of Morse and Strange. “What about for the ladies?” And Joan rolls her eyes at him, but she also smiles, and he thinks she's not quite so on edge when she orders a gin and tonic, white wine for her friend Miriam.

By the time he gets back, drinks precariously balanced, the pub has become even busier with the evening rush. Their plates have been cleared, which at least allows him to put everything down without spilling too much, licking splashed gin from his hand, but there's only one possible space he can fit and that's on the bench seat, right next to Joan. He'll have to sit close. On her other side is Morse. They'll have to be close too.

It should be him, Morse and Strange on that seat, leaving the ladies the chairs. Not only for propriety's sake, but also chivalry. But they'd never fit with Strange's bulk. Joan shifts ever so slightly closer to Morse; an acceptance turned to invitation. He squeezes in and leans forward immediately, taking a long gulp of beer. He remembers, suddenly, chasing Perkins through the back streets earlier, and hopes he doesn’t look sweaty still.

Her leg is warm against his though, and it leaves him wondering why, exactly, he never called her and set up another date. Why he gave up so easily. He leaves it where it is, and angles his body slightly to better be involved in the conversation, one arm along the bench back. It's small enough that if he let it, his hand would fall on Morse's shoulder instead of hers, and he grips the wooden beam.

He lets Strange and Joan carry most of the conversation, interjecting enough to feel involved but without the pressure of responses expected. Morse is also quiet, but for once not in a sullen way. His eyes flick from person to person, resting, often, on Joan's profile. He smiles more easily in her presence than Peter has ever seen him do before. Miriam, it turns out, isn't a talker either, but he's not sure if that's normal or if she's just distracted. Her gaze lingers on fluffy hair and blue eyes for longer than strictly polite, but Morse seems oblivious to the attention. When he pulls his wallet out – first time for everything, it seems – she leaps up to help him carry, and stands close enough at the bar that he must be smelling her perfume. Morse stays face forward, eyes on the bartender, and Peter looks at Strange – wanting a wink, a raised eyebrow, something to say no, let's not let him forget this in the morning – but he's stopped by the look on Joan's face. It's dark, and sad, and something drops in his own stomach.

Yeah. She's gone on Morse, all right.

–

They stay until last orders, and they're all a bit wobbly when they stand up. On the street outside they discuss getting home, and it emerges that Joan and Miriam live in opposite directions.

Strange offers to walk Miriam, as it's out towards his part of town – Peter sees her face fall – and it seems that leaves him and Morse delivering Joan back to the Thursday household. It probably doesn't need both of them, but they fall into step like flanking guards and he can't imagine crying off and heading for home. Even if Joan probably would prefer that, it feels like giving up. He can't.

“Chips?” she asks brightly.

The smell of salt and vinegar assaults his senses, and the pie seems a long time ago. Some starch would probably be good to soak up the beer, anyway. “Sure. Morse?”

Joan insists on buying, as much as both he and Morse try and get the chippie to take their money instead. She argues they've paid for her drinks all night, and Peter argues back that it's their job. Morse just smirks at the floor, until she shoves a bag of chips into his hands too.

“I don't-”

“You will eat, Morse,” she answers plainly, and Peter laughs out loud when Morse obediently shoves a chip in his mouth. They start to walk. It's a pleasant night – cool, but not cold – the kind of evening where you'd be happy for it to never end.

“You should just bed down in the flowerbeds,” he ribs Morse as they amble. “By the time you get home you'll have to turn around and come straight back again.” He doesn’t miss the early mornings of collecting Thursday, he tells himself. It's the worst bit of being a bagman. He doesn’t miss being a bagman.

“Maybe you should both come,” muses Joan. “So I can see how hungover you both are.”

“I don't do hangovers,” says Morse.

“That's because hungover is his base state,” Peter adds. “He doesn’t know any different.” Morse shoves him hard with one hand, and his blood alcohol level trips him over his own feet to sit, hard, on a garden wall. Joan is giggling, and Peter laughs at the shock in Morse's eyes. “Attacking a senior officer is a very serious offence, D.C. Morse,” he jokes. Morse smiles, finally, his eyes lighting up, and as Peter reaches out in retaliation he darts away, scattering chips as he goes.

–

It becomes a kind of standing arrangement, when cases allow. Strange is... uncomplicated. And Morse. Well, he can't rightly say they're friends, but at least you always know where you stand. Morse doesn't like him, and he doesn't like Morse, and that works well enough, it seems, to spend evenings in the pub and have them feel easier than those where he's centre of attention with the other sergeants.

Wednesday nights down the Turf, they'll head for a few beers, and more than likely at some point Joan Thursday will push through the door with a friend or two in her wake. They don't always sit together, but usually they do, and it's an odd facet to the tradition but Joan will always push herself onto the bench seat that him and Morse have made their own. He'll feel the long line of her against his thigh and watch the short hairs on her arm raise when the door opens and lets in the chill. It makes it easy to relax into the chatter and alcohol.

'Course sometimes, annoyingly, he's got Morse down the other side, another brand of body heat that demands attention. But the grimace on Morse's face at having Peter on one side and the bench end on the other – Joan completely blocked, unable to even look at her without Peter's head in the way – goes some way to making up for it. Serves him right.

They keep up the walking home, too, like all gentlemen would. Strange always takes Miriam home, and Lucy too – but when it's Hayley there's always an undercurrent of tension as last orders draws near, because she lives in between him and Morse, and it means one of them has to take her while the other walks Joan.

Morse fights for Joan now – now he's decided he wants her, and no, Peter isn’t okay with that. He stepped back, gave Morse a chance and he  _didn't take it_ . That's on him. It's become clear over the weeks that Joan likes him. And Morse might be good for her, but he's far from perfect, and Peter can be good too, he's pretty sure. He might have been – other things, once – but now –  _now,_ he's a police officer and he's a good guy and he  _likes_ Joan. 

It's not overt, of course. He's not sure even Strange has decoded what all their pointed looks mean, but Joan frowns when she catches Morse jabbing a finger into his side. At least until he jokes about writing Morse up in the morning for insubordination, and grabs him by the neck to knuckle his hair likes it's playground horseplay.

Come to think of it, he's not seen Hayley in a while.

They act as each other's keepers, almost. If it was just him and Joan, by this point anyone would assume they were dating. Same as if it was just Morse and Joan. But the two of them together turns that into an impossibility, and although word gets around about their meetings, Thursday thinks it coincidence (It is, sort of. They don't explicitly organise it) and just thanks them both, for seeing Joan safely home after. Strange obviously expects the two of them to have it out at some point, and keeps himself out of it, entertaining whichever friend Joan has dragged along.

It's not every week, of course. Sometimes they have to work, or a case has just wrapped and neither of them have the stamina for staying upright let alone heading out. And sometimes Joan just doesn't turn up. It's on one of those occasions that Morse tells Peter Thursday gave him and Joan his blessing, back when Peter was dating her. He'd think it was meant to rile him, but Morse had pitched his voice low, so Strange couldn't overhear, words a warm breath in his ear with no malice attached. Peter's not sure why he felt the need to tell him at all.

–

This is definitely the best part of the night, he thinks, as they spill out of the pub. Even as the winter draws harder and colder, and they have to curl into their coats; it always feels like the drinking and warm fug is just a lead up to this.

Peter had watched Morse, the night the first big chill hit, and felt his own muscles cramp in sympathy; his coat is thin, and he's got gloves but nothing else. The next morning he chucked his old scarf at him from across the office. He's pretty sure the idiot would spend whatever's left of his month's pay check on beer and records before he thought to kit himself out properly for winter.

He'd like to curl Joan under one arm as they walk, but that's an assumption he can't make. Instead she huddles between them, sheltered from the worst of the wind. He placates himself with the way they bump into each other with every other step, and thinks – if Morse wasn't here, he'd try to kiss her. Under one of the street lights. She's so pretty, her cheeks flushed from the cold. His must be as well; Morse's certainly are. Her lips would be like blocks of ice, just like his – clumsy until they warmed each other through.

They walk slowly. He's not the only one drawing this out.

“I'm going to move out. Looking for my own place and everything.”

It strikes out of nowhere, a sentence breathed into the still night air, and it makes no sense, because why would she do that? She has a home, why would she leave it? But Morse is nodding like he understands, and asking questions.

“I've got a couple of viewings lined up. Just flats, you know, one bed places, but I think a bit of independence-”

Peter doesn't get it. She sounds happy, though, and he's glad for that. Glad too, that Morse is reacting so he doesn't have to.

“Perhaps you could come with me, give a second opinion?” Morse stutters, taken aback, and she continues, “I'd ask Dad but he doesn’t want me to go.” She rolls her eyes. “I know it's ridiculous, but I can't help thinking they won't try to stiff me if there's a man there.”

“I can go,” Morse says finally.

Peter forces a laugh. “You don't want him, he lives in a hovel. I'm sure Thursday would go if you asked.”

Morse looks at him, and he obviously thinks he's saying something but his face may as well be written in Sanskrit for all Peter can read of it. He would. Thursday would do whatever his daughter asked. He's her dad.

“Why don't you both come? Three opinions are better than two.”

–

The flat viewings start awkwardly. Mostly because the letting agent looks at the three of them uncertainly, and Joan rushes to cover by saying that Morse is her boyfriend, and Peter is her  _brother_ .

I mean, given the colouring it was probably the only way that could go, but even so.

Morse smirks when the agent turns away to unlock the door, and Peter gives him his best withering look. It only serves to make him grin more.

“Combined lounge diner and kitchen,” the agent rattles off as the four of them stand around in the living room, a beaded curtain separating off a tiny kitchen. It's the last one of the day; they've all been small, but as nice as he could afford on his sergeant's salary. Either Joan's earning more than he thought she would at the bank, or the Thursdays are helping her out.

This one is... cute. It suits Joan.

Morse wanders, running his hands over everything like he's testing for woodworm or structural integrity. Peter scans the walls; he can see her hanging a picture there, a bookcase there. He wonders what furniture she'd go for.

“And the bedroom.”

They let Joan go in alone at first, before Morse pokes his head through the door. He has to show some interest, as the  _boyfriend_ after all, much as it makes the agent's nose wrinkle. Peter pushes him in, following through, just to see the agent's frown deepen. When Morse realises what he's done and why, he flashes Peter a smile.

It's just another room of course, empty of any furniture. But he can't help picturing a bed in that corner – can't help seeing Joan stretched out on it, in her nightwear, and he doesn't know what she favours but he thinks it would be pyjamas and he suddenly, fiercely, wants to  _know_ . 

“I think that's the one,” Joan says happily as they head down the steps back onto the street.

“It feels solid,” Morse says.

“Peter?” she asks.

“Very nice,” he agrees.

Yes, very nice. He still can't quite understand why she wants to go at all, but he can see her living here like he couldn't at the others. Opening the curtains in the morning, picking up the newspaper and milk from the doorstep. Life.

He likes, too, the way the flat sits equidistant between his flat and Morse's, the three of them forming one side of a triangle, with the Turf at a distant point.

–

The first Wednesday after she moves in, she's late to the pub. She's also without a friend in tow, but sits with them all the same and rambles breathlessly about overtime at work while Peter gets her a drink and Morse adds a few packets of crisps to the order. She tears into them when they arrive, obviously having missed dinner.

“It's criminal, honestly,” she finishes her story, eyes crinkled as she smiles at Strange. “You should arrest them. Unfair labour laws.” One of the new constables has joined them, taken under Jim's wing, and he looks taken aback by this whirlwind of hair and perfume who sits so easily in their group of coppers with no introductions offered.

Peter taps a finger on Morse's shoulder, arm stretched along the bench back like usual, and flicks his gaze sideways to the constable and his obvious discomfort. Morse's eyes glitter in amusement.

“This is Joan,” Peter offers eventually. “Joan, Travis, Travis, Joan.”

“Nice to meet you,” she offers her hand across the table. “And sorry for the rant. One of those days, you know.”

“Nice to meet you too. Are you, uh-” Travis's eyes take in Peter, then Morse, then Strange, obviously trying to pick which one she's with. Peter stifles a snort by taking a swift pull of his pint.

“She's Inspector Thursday's daughter,” Strange explains. “We've all known Joan for years.”

It's true in a way, but it makes her sound like their little sister, and that's definitely not the case. Peter watches as Travis nods and grins, and, obviously convinced Joan is a free target, looks her up and down with a bite to his lip that curls Peter's in disgust.

He feels her stiffen, and knows Morse must have too.

He wants to lay claim – not even because he wants her, but because, right now, it would make Travis back off. But he can't do that to her, not with Strange here watching, not wondering if she'd rather it was Morse tangle their fingers together and stare him down across the table. She taps him on the thigh.

“I need the loo,” she whispers, and nudges him out until he stands and lets her pass. Travis watches her all the way to the toilets, and when he spins back in his seat, Peter doesn't need to look to the right to know what's on Morse's face. He's pretty sure, by the way Travis's drops, that it mirrors his own. The two of them, in sync at last.

“Miss Thursday is off limits,” Morse hisses. His hand is curled around the bench seat between them, where Joan was sitting, and he wonders if he's reminding himself of her presence or holding himself back.

“Show some respect,” Peter adds. He's had some practice as letting his face go cold, at using some of the darkness he has inside him, and he lets tendrils of it out to colour his tone. Even Strange, looking rather upset himself at Travis' actions, double takes. Morse's hand twitches next to his.

“Sorry,” Travis says hurriedly. “I didn't-”

“She's the Inspector's daughter,” Strange repeats, as if that's all this is. It is, Peter tells himself, letting out a breath of air slowly.

Joan returns from the toilet then, and he stands, automatically, to let her through. He sees her glance at the back of Travis' head, at the way, if she sits, they'll be facing each other for the rest of the night, and changes his mind. “I was going to head out,” he says, glancing down at Morse before back at Joan. “Need an escort home?”

“Thank you Peter,” she agrees, and they faff around with coats near the door long enough for Morse to down the rest of his pint and make his own excuses. Outside, Peter lights a cigarette and raises his eyes to the sky as he exhales.

Joan sets off, walking fast and leading them as neither of them quite know the quickest way to her new place from here. They keep pace easily with their longer legs, and he thinks he sees Morse nudge at her hand. She smiles at him, anyway, and her pace slows from frantic to merely active. “Okay?” he asks.

She laughs, and it's not quite carefree, but it's not fake either. “Guys like that. I don't know why I let them get to me. The way they look though. Like-”

“Makes you feel like it's you,” Peter interrupts. “It's not you, it's him.” It's worryingly close to what he never discusses, and tries his hardest not to even think about. But Joan looks at him in wonder.

“Yes, that's what it feels like.”

“It's him,” Peter repeats. “His problem.”

“His problem.” She nods. “I'm glad there are men out there like you two.”

Their pace has been slowing all the time, but she lives closer now than when she was at the Thursdays', and although it's seemed like no time at all, they're at her half-familiar front door. “Would you like to come in?” she asks. “You didn't even finish your drink, Peter.”

He's not sure what to say. She doesn't owe him, but of course he wants to come in. She never could have offered before, of course, at her parents' house, and he wonders, suddenly, if this is why she wanted to move out, so they could move this forward. But he glances sideways at where Morse still stands, the two of them on the street looking up the steps at her, as she fits her key into an unfamiliar lock. “I've got beer,” she continues, oblivious, opening the door. “Or whiskey, Morse, if you prefer.”

Something twinges in his chest. The invitation wasn't for  _him_ , it was for  _them_ . It feels like loss, but also like relief – like missed chances and status quo confirmed. Like there will be time again, but for now, the river flows on. He nods, dumbly, and they follow her into the flat.

–

She dishes out whiskeys to them all, even herself, although she pours smaller measures than either he or Morse would have done. They sip politely, still standing, because her flat isn't fully furnished yet and the only place to sit down is a small two seater sofa.

If it was just him and Joan, he thinks, they'd sit. Going by the state of the padding they'd tip into each other a little, and he could use it as an excuse to lean her into him, to bend and tickle at her neck with his lips. How they might lean back, if she wanted, and he'd get to feel her stretched out on top of him, match their breathing as they kissed.

But there are three of them, and they might be used to sitting close at the pub, but that's a public place with Strange in attendance, not Joan's own living room.

Joan seems to have no such qualms, settling herself down the line in the middle where the cushions meet, and patting either side of her in turn. Peter thinks it's funny, how they sit in the same order they usually end up in at the pub. Him, Joan, Morse, left to right.

He's right about the padding, but with the three of them it balances, and they can all lean into the back instead.

Joan downs her whiskey, and coughs. “Peter,” she says, turning to him. They're so close, sat like this, and he raises an eyebrow in an attempt at nonchalance. She has tiny freckles he never noticed before. She leans forward, and he opens his mouth to ask what's wrong, when suddenly she's kissing him; soft, and sweet, and tasting mainly of whiskey but in a way that sets his heart racing. With one hand he cups her shoulder and with the other – his stomach swoops as he remembers Morse at the end of the sofa.

And then she's gone, and he's pretty sure he must look like an idiot, gaping and wide-eyed, but – what was that?

He looks past her, to Morse, and his eyes are wide too but he doesn’t – he doesn't look  _angry_ as such, just surprised, just -

And then he can't see Morse, because Joan's hair is in the way, she's turned to him, she's kissing Morse, when she just kissed him – and he can't process this, still staring as she pulls back, and that was probably rude, wasn't it, watching? - but ruder, perhaps, to kiss him and then turn and kiss Morse right in front of him -

Their eyes meet again over Joan's shoulder, and he thinks once again, they're in sync. Although now it's not righteous indignation, it's not protective instincts, it's  _shock_ . She pulls back, and sinks back until she's right in the middle again, and like two cartoon characters they turn in perfect unison to look at her. She laughs, but it sounds wrought.

“Oh come on,” she says, her voice wobbly. “Is it really a surprise?”

Yes, of course it is. No one could have predicted...

“What-” he stops, not sure what he wants to ask.

“Who do you want?” Morse asks instead.

She looks between them, wildly. “ _Both_ of you, Morse. I can't choose! You're both-” she runs a hand through her hair, pulling at it, and he wants to soothe it down and back into place. “I like you both,” she finishes. 

“Like... like sharing?” For all they couldn't help staring at each other before, now he can't meet Morse's eyes. Because he likes Joan a lot – if it wasn't for Morse he'd be halfway in love already – but he's not sure about that. About having Joan some nights and knowing others, she's elsewhere. About having a girlfriend he can't walk in on unexpectedly, because he might catch an eyeful of Morse too. The thought makes him fidget.

“Who'd get Wednesdays?” asks Morse, plaintive, and it makes Peter laugh, an edge of hysteria. She glares at them both, cutting him off with a punch to the arm.

“Both of you,” she says again, and something about the way she says it makes him rethink as the humour drains away. She's actually, properly serious. And it wouldn't be alternate evenings but something more like three points of a triangle. He flicks his eyes to Morse and double takes when he finds him already looking back – like maybe he's worked it out too.

“Like...” he can't finish it.

Morse clears his throat, but when he speaks, it still sounds husky. “Together?”

She nods, wordlessly, and they all sit in silence. Peter suddenly can't look anywhere but at his own hands, because this – this can't really be happening, can it? He's a copper from Oxford, for God's sake, not some New York socialite, or – or wealthy Soho bohemian. He can't... he can't date a man, he can't date  _Morse_ , more to the point, and he certainly can't do that and date a girl too. Joan.

“You look at each other,” she whispers. “Don't you?”

He doesn't. It's all in her head, he doesn't look at Morse the way he looks at Joan -

“Yes,” says Morse, deep and gravelly, and Peter's head snaps up. Dark eyes meet blue, and – they do that a lot. But only because Morse's desk is across from his, it's where his gaze falls... he looks down, along a neck he's surprised to find he knows the curve of, to a collar with a worn corner, because Morse spilt tea on his last clean shirt yesterday so it's back to this old faithful that he really should chuck out.

“Peter?” He looks up again. Morse has never called him anything but Jakes before, and it sounds wrong, hearing that name on his tongue. He wants to swallow it up and take it away. “We could...”

Morse is blushing, he realises. Well, he knew Morse did – he's seen him flushed with exertion, flushed with anger, flushed with righteousness. But it seems different here, seeing blood heat his cheeks with embarrassment, probably, and wonder whether he goes that colour for other reasons too, what it would take in the bedroom to make him hot to the touch -

He forces down his train of thought.

And then carefully peels back the edges again. Because that's what Joan's asking, isn't it? For the three of them. And if he and Morse – if they can – look upon each other that way, it would make everything easier.

For Joan.

He pulls himself out of it for now, and imagines instead Morse hovering over her. He sees her smiling up at him, hair disarrayed on the pillow, lips red from kissing. He imagines Morse, perhaps streaked with lipstick, runs his eyes down to where his arms strain to keep him from falling into her, they way he'd smile, private, like they're sharing a joke -

His memory supplants imagination, shows him Morse's face as they shared a look before Travis turned – and suddenly it's too real, the way Morse's eyes would glitter at Joan and then flick upwards, meet his, because Joan is lying in his lap and -

And he can feel his cheeks heating.

“Peter?” Morse asks again.

It wasn't just the desk, he realises. He does look, he's got a brain full of Morse at every angle, every type of lighting, that he's been storing up – but he can't let him know. If the bugger knew he hadn't figured it out he'd be insufferable.

It's like being in a dream world, everything slow and slightly out of kilter, but he's sure that's his own hand that reaches across Joan and settles on Morse's shoulder. It's definitely Morse's hands that come up and grasp, gently, at his forearm, and pull him in.

The sofa may be small, but it's big enough that he has to shift slightly forward, and the press of Joan's thigh against his is comfortable and familiar as he twists. They stop, inches apart, and Peter swallows. He can see Morse do the same, his blue eyes darting all over Peter's face, until they come to a rest, and that might be on his nose but he thinks probably Morse is looking at his lips. It makes him want to lick them, but he can't do that. The moment drags. They're neither of them sure, he thinks. Because he hasn't thought about Morse (he might _look_, but he hasn't _thought_, not seriously, everyone has the odd moment) and he's beginning to think maybe Morse has, but he's wavering now like it doesn't make it any easier. How could it? They're constable and sergeant for God's -

Morse's lips are dry and warm, and brush his in the barest flutter; almost something he could have imagined. But no – he opens his eyes and Morse is still close. This time he leans in instead, tries to kiss Morse as he might a girl. It's weird, his chin scratchy, his hair short enough that Peter keeps forgetting and his hand drops out the end of it, until he gives up on the stroking and just cradles Morse's head instead.

Morse must like that, because his mouth opens, and Peter can taste the whiskey they've both been drinking, the beer from earlier on. His mouth is so warm, and wet, and he's not soft like Joan at all, he's hard, pushing back at Peter like a girl never would, used to being in control. His  _tongue _ is in Peter's  _mouth_ – and God help him, but he likes it. He  _really_ likes it. 

He hears a whine, and for a second thinks it was him, but Morse breaks the kiss to look to the side. Peter's hand stays put, holding on, and he notes idly the curve of his cheekbone as he turns, the way the blush has intensified, the little freckles that match -

Joan. Oh god, Joan. Sat between them with her teeth clamped in her lip, her eyes dark, her cheeks red. He's got a thing, he thinks wildly, for blush-stained freckles. How could he never know? She's staring at Morse, and he'd feel left out, but she's got one hand clutching his leg so hard he'll have nail imprints right through his trousers. He loosens his grip on Morse's hair, but he presses back, so Peter holds more securely. He watches as Morse sighs happily, the way Joan grins in response, her teeth sliding to free her lip. She looks at Peter, and it's like being held in the eye of a storm.

“Fuck,” she whispers.

The word sends a hot shiver through him; an edge of forbidden dropped from her bitten lips. He reaches for her, tangles his spare hand in her hair, and smiles as she rolls her head into the touch. He's about to lean in further – kiss her again – when his way is blocked by Morse. He should feel replaced, but there's something about Morse and Joan together, and he can _watch _them now, side-on, the way Morse's eyes close as he snakes an arm around her waist, hauling her close. The way Joan blinks slowly, smiles into the kiss as she keeps her eyes open – and he always thought that was weird, but now, _now_ she's looking sideways at Peter. He realises he has a hand on each head, still, holding them together like a damned puppet show, and can't help pressing, lightly. It makes Morse groan as Joan gasps, and sends a hot flare through his stomach, a sordid film reel of what he could ask for, direct, what he could get to _see_...

He can't quite hold himself up any more. He leans backwards, the sofa arm uncomfortable in his back until he shifts enough. Morse and Joan follow him down until they're practically lying on his chest, and this is going to get uncomfortable for another reason very soon.

Or... not. Because Joan tilts her head up to catch lips to his jaw as they rearrange, and as Morse settles he realises with a jolt that he's already hard. Course, he's the one who's been all over Joan. “Fuck,” he echoes, for lack of anything better to say. Morse grins at him, propping himself up and leaning in, and then he's the one being kissed within an inch of his life, but even better, because Joan's there too, delicate nips and licks until she works her way up from his throat and bites at his ear lobe.

“Bedroom,” she whispers, and he nods, frantically – or at least, as much as he can while mostly pinned by two bodies. She's trapped too, against the sofa back, and they'll have to move Morse if they're going to get up, but he seems happy where he is. Well he would; he's got a soft body to lie on, rather than the sofa arm making itself unpleasantly known in his spinal cord.

Not all soft, he realises, as Morse wriggles, settling in, and dislodges a groan from his throat. “Morse,” he says, pulling back. It comes out odd; strangely breathy, in a way he doesn't associate with himself at all.

“What?”

“Bedroom.”

Joan's breathing almost in his ear; a hot wave of air that tickles and sends shivers right through him.

Morse is moving slowly, that brain of his slowed to treacle, if the way he looks up at Peter and then across to Joan is any indication. He's also not getting up, and Peter gets that, he likes this, Morse stretched out on top of him – who'd have thought he'd like that? - but equally they're getting nowhere. He grabs Morse by the ribs and pushes, enough to have him rising up. He's never thought himself strong, but Morse is as skinny as he is, if not worse, so he goes, lifted into the air. The look on his face is priceless.

“Hey,” he complains, getting his feet under him.

“Let us up and-” He isn't sure how to finish that sentence, feels a blush poking through at the words he could use, and trails off instead. But Morse is forgiving, for once, holding out a hand and yanking him upright. They turn to look at Joan.

She's laid out on the empty sofa like a painting; long limbs draped, head propped on one arm, eyes dark and lidded.

“Bedroom,” Morse gasps finally, and like a spell is broken she laughs, pushing herself up and wrapping one arm round each of their waists.

“This way, boys.”

\--

It is quiet, after, just the sound of three breathing in darkness. Was it strange, keeping the lights off? He'd like to do it again. With light. He'd like to see, like he could earlier. But maybe darkness helped, this time.

He breathes.

He trails fingertips across Joan's belly, light and tickling, until she captures his hand and traps his lips in a chaste kiss. As she pulls back, her expression changes, darkening, and something shifts in his stomach. She can't call this a mistake. Can she?

She's so apologetic as she explains, she doesn't know the neighbours, it won't be every time (how he needed that, to hear there will be another time, no mistakes, relief spreading like butter on toast), but just until she's had chance to judge the lay of the land – would you, could you? Quietly?

It's a wrench, to pull himself from a pile of warm limbs, dragging Morse after him, and sort out shirts and trousers in the half-light of the lamp she clicks on until he's mostly dressed in what he came in. Him and Morse are a similar enough size that it doesn't matter too much though, so long as they don't wear anything obvious in front of anyone who might know.

Then again, they could always claim Morse bled all over his clothes again. He's got previous.

She insists on getting up with them, no matter how they try to get her to stay under the covers, and together pad through to the hall. At the door she kisses them hard, in turn, before stepping back shivering in the nightdress she threw on. Turns out he was wrong about the pyjamas.

She needs to get back under the blankets, so much as he'd like to stay, there's no sense in dragging out the goodbye. He goes for the door, but Morse leans on it with one palm. And he realises why – a little jolt that reminds him what he's forgotten. He crowds in and kisses Morse, just once but deeply, wet, in a way he couldn't have imagined a few hours ago, a way he couldn't do outside this flat. When he pulls back, they all look at each other, too serious, until Joan giggles, breaking the tension. When they eventually calm, she shushes them, and unlatches the door. He and Morse tiptoe outside like church mice, and the door closes behind them with a snick just on the edge of hearing.

Joan lives in between them. It's so handy, but it means that now he goes right and Morse goes left, and the street is cold and dark and he doesn't want to go. He thought he'd trained himself out of feeling like this after sex, but maybe it's just easier when you only have the girl's first name, and already know the number scrawled on paper in your pocket will go unused. He wonders if Morse is feeling the same way, because he's not moving either.

They're completely ruining Joan's idea of a subtle exit, if they carry on standing here until dawn.

He turns left.

“What?” he mutters when they're far enough down the street they could have come from anywhere. “Thought I'd take the long way, fancied a smoke.”

He roots around in his pockets to prove his story, taking out a fag and lighting it, a tiny flame in the night. To be truthful, he could have done with one half an hour past, but out of deference for Joan's brand new furniture he'd held off. He'll wait until no one will wonder where the tobacco smell came from.

Course, he has no such regard for his own flat, and therefore no reason not to go straight home. Morse ignores the hole in his story.

They walk in silence, Morse's hands deep in his pockets and Peter working his way down to embers. They walk for so long that to have any plausible deniability he's going to have to turn off now, or he'll just have walked Morse home. He stops, and drops the cigarette butt, grinding it under his toe. He can't quite – can't quite leave. So instead he shoves Morse, one palm broad against his shoulder, and for that second of contact he feels grounded. Morse grins – an open, toothy smile that shows a hint of pink and leaves him a little wobbly because – surely anyone can see, can't they? What that smile does to him?

But no, this is safe, he realises, as Morse hits back with a hand scrubbing over Peter's hair, half-affection, half-grind of knuckles – a playground retaliation. Anyone looking – at one in the morning, on Oxford's streets – would see school friends who've had one too many pints, brothers in arms on the sauce. So long as they don't see Morse and Jakes, and wonder why Sergeant Jakes was letting Constable Morse get the better of him without pulling rank. Morse lets him go and Peter feels his fingers twitch – either to reach back again (but no, can't get too out of hand, who knows where that would go) or to smooth back his hair. He does neither, meeting Morse's amused gaze instead.

“Tomorrow?” Morse asks.

God, tomorrow. Work and – oh Jesus, _Thursday, _how's he going to face -

“You should take Joan to the pictures. I often go on my own. I could meet you there.”

His heart leaps into his throat at the image; a proper date, the three of them, without Strange or whoever else tags along in the pub, perhaps a chance afterwards to recreate tonight, perhaps Joan will have sorted her neighbours and they can _stay_, he'd get to see the two of them wake up, curled around each other, curled around him -

But wait. “People'll think she's my girlfriend if I take her to the pictures,” he mutters.

Morse shrugs, and his hands are back in his pockets now, so the movement drags his whole coat up and down. “She is.”

He can't help the quick glance around before hissing, “she's yours too.”

“Only one of us can-”

“Then it should be _you-_”

They stare at each other. Peter folds his arms.

“We go together,” Morse allows, eventually. “Friends.”

“Then after, we talk about this.”

“Joan wouldn't let us decide between ourselves anyway.” Morse smiles again, but there's something sad in it now, the real world bleeding in to what was so easy behind closed doors, and Peter smiles back just as small. It would never be a question of whether he and Morse might be the couple. It'll be the two of them as rivals, bitter competition for Joan's heart. Or cuckolds, and Joan called worse, if they're too indiscreet.

It's far too early for declarations of any kind, but he's coming to see he's already twined up in Morse just as tight as he is in Joan. Might not have realised it, until tonight, but that just means the roots have grown strong unobserved.

“Tomorrow,” Peter agrees, and walks off into the darkness before his feet refuse to leave.

–

He calls Joan in the morning, before he heads out to work, and invites her to the cinema. She sounds bright and happy down the phone, and he wonders if he should have waited until he was in the office, and Morse could have perched on his desk to hear too. But of course that's madness.

Instead he gives him a nod over coffee when Morse trails Thursday in. His gaze flicks to the big man and back, but he's going to have to get used to him, and find some way to marry up his Inspector with – with what happened last night, what he wants, desperately, to happen again. He can't tiptoe around Thursday; the man's too good a copper not to realise, and then he'll want to root out why. And that's a kettle of fish they don't need disturbed. So he stiffens his shoulders, and drawls, unconcernedly, “You're still up for it, right Morse? Double feature?”

Morse's eyes widen, and Peter frowns, running back over what he's said – it's not like he explicitly invited him on a date, there's nothing weird about going to the cinema – and then realises with a flash of heat that Morse's has a dirty mind. He can't do anything about it now, though, and struggles to keep his face neutral until Morse shrugs and hums, and Peter figures that's his way of confirming message received without seeming too bothered. As soon as he's turned away, Peter slumps in his chair and runs a finger under his collar with a swallow.

They're both lucky that Thursday is inside his office, lighting his first pipe of the day, because that probably didn't come off particularly subtle.

The rest of the day is slow torture, and he'd almost wish for the distraction of a good murder if he didn't have such important evening plans. Instead he files reports, and fills out rotas like a good sergeant, and drinks more cups of tea than is strictly wise, but boiling the kettle gives him an excuse to get up and it feels like he has energy to spare, buckets of it that need burning through if he's to make it to five. Now that he's been made aware of it, he's embarrassed how often his eyes drift across to Morse's desk, and how he has to force his gaze back to paperwork.

His hands shake no matter how many cigarette he lights, and he chain smokes them walking from station to cinema. “Sorry,” he mutters, lighting the third from the second.

Morse shrugs. “I'm getting used to it. Might come to like the smell.”

It speaks of futures and proximity, and he smiles shakily as they speed through the streets. He hopes it looks like two men late for an appointment, rather than a clear rush of adrenaline still fizzing in his veins, Morse forced to keep up.

He only settles when they push through the shiny doors of the Roxy, and he sees Joan. She's waiting for them, and today she has her green coat on, and her legs are bare but for clear stockings. He remembers pulling off a similar pair last night, and shakes his head to clear the image – friends. They're here as friends.

She grins and waves at them both, and he is relieved to find no one looks at them askance.

He buys the tickets, swallowing around the lump in his throat as he asks the attendant for three. But she counts them out without comment, taking his money, and he shuffles out of line as he watches Morse buy the snacks and Joan get the drinks.

When the theatre opens, they file in to their seats in any order, because they're not here as couple and third wheel, so it doesn't matter who sits where. They don't need Joan as a buffer down the middle, like she so often was in the pub. Instead, he finds himself in the lucky seat, and they chat until the lights go down and the reels start.

In the gloom, Joan takes his hand, lightly, until he holds it tighter and feels something click into place inside him. This is what he wants. He's spent a lifetime half-in half-out of the present, nightmares of the past, worries of the future, but now, here, this is what he wants.

Well, part of it. His other hand he keeps the popcorn steady on his lap, but if he had a choice – if it wasn't so dangerous – he'd take Morse's hand as he's holding Joan's. He grips the cardboard tighter instead, digging patterns into it with his nails. He just_._ He just wants to hold his hand. And he can't.

As the previews fade into the main feature, he feels Morse tuck his hand into the gap between them, so the back rests firmly against Peter's leg. He breathes, deeply, and Morse pats him briefly on the forearm before wedging his hand back – no accident – but hidden. It's like something melts. Good enough. Everything he wanted.

It won't be perfect. It certainly won't be easy, that's for sure. But for now, here? It is.


End file.
